The Boy in the Subway
by Mrs. Knightley
Summary: When a body is found in a subway tunnel, brutally murdered, it is up to Booth and Brennan to figure out who did it. Booth suspects a well known drug lord but when he ends up a hostage it is up to Brennan to find him before it's to late. Post Season 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, Kathy Reichs, and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 1**

They descended the stairs down into the subway station. He was filling her in on the details as they went.

"A driver thought he saw something just off the tracks. He couldn't be sure, but he said it was reflective, like an athletic shoe," Booth said, holding a ticket station gate open for her. "The driver radioed in and they sent maintenance to check it out. It is not all that uncommon to get homeless people down here; it's warm."

They reached the platform and Booth jumped the four-foot drop down to the subway tracks. She handed him her bag, then he reached up and helped her down, steadying her as she landed on the uneven ground.

"Thanks," said Brennan, taking the bag back.

They walked along the tracks a short ways until they could see lights ahead.

"We have the whole Subway shut down until we can get this cleaned up," the Agent added.

"Booth, you know I can't rush my initial inquiry," Brennan said, looking at her partner.

"I know that," he replied, smiling, "I just meant you don't have to worry about getting hit by a train, Bones."

They approached the crime scene, ducking under the yellow caution tape set up in a wide perimeter around the body. There were portable lights, flooding the tunnel with as much light as possible. Brennan slid her gloves on as she carefully approached the body. It was leaning against the wall of the subway tunnel.

"Male," she stated, as she knelt by the body. "Caucasian descent, early adolescence, I would say 13-15 years old. Advanced stage of decomposition, probably due to rats. I would guess he has been here two to five days."

"Cause of death?" inquired Booth as he stood behind her.

"I can't say," Brennan said, leaning over the body.

This was a not something Booth was used to when working with Brennan. "What?" he asked, making sure he had heard her right.

"There are multiple injuries; fractures to several ribs, femur, distal radius, compound fracture to the humerus, skull trauma, clavicle. Gunshot to the ilium and the upper thoracic cavity," she said as she worked her way though her assessment. "It's to early too determine which would have been the fatal injury."

"That's a lot of injuries. Was he hit by the subway?" Booth asked.

"No, I don't think so," she said, standing up and pointing her flashlight towards the ground at the victim's feet. "Look at the drag marks, here," she said, "and there." She moved towards the tracks, kneeling down for a better look. "There is blood here; it looks like he was beat and left on the tracks to be run over, but he managed to pull himself off and drag himself over to the wall," she said, standing back up and pointing her flashlight towards the body.

"Where he sat and died," Booth added, finishing her statement.

She looked up at him. "Yes," she said, making her way back over to the body.

"I'll need soil samples to three inches down and debris within a 20-foot radius. We also need to get pictures of everything before he is moved."

"You got it, Bones," he said, flipping his notepad shut.

--

"I've got a face for you," announced Angela, sliding her key card through the security device and climbing the stairs to the forensic area.

Brennan was leaning over what was left of the victim's body as Angela approached her. The brown-eyed woman handed her the sketch.

"Handsome kid," the artist remarked, trying to avoid looking at the skeleton on the table before her. "Who could do something like this to a kid?" she asked, to no one in particular.

"Very good, Ange," said Brennan, looking over the drawing in her hands. "Have you run a comparison between it and the photos in the NCIC database?" she asked, as she handed the picture back to her friend.

"The computer is running the comparison now," replied Angela. "Gosh, I hate the cases involving kids," she said, looking down at her feet.

"I know, Ange," said Brennan, putting her hand on the artist's shoulder. "We all do."

"Okay, what do you have for me?" inquired Booth, as he mounted the steps to join the ladies standing by the table.

"Well," began Brennan, taking a deep breath as she walked around the table, "our victim has a wide rage of injuries, all at different levels of healing. None of the fractures show signs of professional setting, meaning that they were not treated before the bones began remodeling. Based on the remodeling of the left femur, which is the one I date as the oldest injury, our victim had his leg broken three weeks ago. Stress fractures on the wrist, as well as bone markers in the shoulders, imply that he was restrained with his hands behind his back for at least that long.

"You mean he was held prisoner and tortured, then left on the subway tracks to be run over?" Angela asked, revulsion and disbelief evident in her voice.

Brennan looked at her friend for a moment, before continuing.

"The actual cause of death is here," she stated, pointing at the ribs on the right side of the body. You can see the cut marks going through the third and fourth ribs, which would have created a _hemothorax."_

"A hemo-what-ax?" asked Booth, looking a little confused.

"Hemorrhaging in the pleural cavity," Brennan stated, trying to clarify.

Booth looked at Angela. "Bleeding in the where?" he asked, in a quiet voice.

"Bleeding in the chest cavity, the space between the lungs and the walls of the chest," Brennan stated, giving him an incredulous look.

Booth spread his hands apart, shrugging slightly. "There. Would that really have been so hard to say to begin with, Bones?" he inquired, somewhat exasperated. They had been partners for over three years now, and while his medical jargon vocabulary had increased dramatically, he still found her hard to follow at times.

She gave him a patronizing look before continuing.

"The puncture here," she indicated the ribs again. "When the weapon went in, it lacerated the lung and the pleural cavity began filling with blood. It was not a large puncture, but over time, in this case four days, the area filled with blood and began putting pressure on the lungs, collapsing the right one and putting added strain on the heart. Eventually his body went into shock due to blood loss."

She paused, "It would become increasingly hard to breath and each breath would be excruciating," she said, almost to herself.

There was silence for a second or two before she shook her head slightly and continued. "This, coupled with extensive bleeding from several other injuries, mostly stab wounds and a subdural hematoma… he bled to death over the space of several days," She finished, clearly uncomfortable with the scenario. "I put this injury at six days ago, which corresponds with Hodgins' estimated time of death as two days ago.

"Oh my gosh," said Angela, putting her hand to her mouth. "He was just a kid…" she trailed off in a quiet, horrified voice.

"Ange," began Brennan, in a concerned and sympathetic tone.

"I'm sorry," the said artist quickly. "I'm okay, I just… I'm going to go check on the computer, see if it has found a match," she said, as she headed for the stairs.

Booth turned and walked a few paces towards the rail, a calculating look on his face.

"What?" inquired Brennan. "Have you seen something like this before?" she asked, watching him pace.

"It is hard to be sure, people are beat all the time and left for dead, but we have had a couple cases like this where the beating can really be considered torture; it spans several weeks and then the body is left where it will be smashed. We found one in a wrecking yard; the crew was smashing cars and found a body shoved in one," He said, still puzzling over the information. "It's almost impossible to get a lead in these case, but we suspected a drug lord who works the coast area.

"Trace element analysis complete," announced Hodgins, coming up the stairs. "I found all the normal bugs and slime from the subway, as well as rat activity. I also found traces of heroin in his hair, but not in the concentrations that suggests use."

"What do you mean?" asked Brennan, folding her arms across her chest.

"With Cam on vacation, the tox screen will take longer. However, my findings suggest that he used heroin, worked with it, or was around it; but either stopped using it months ago or just has residual particulates from handling or being around it. I also found traces of Pheynl-2-Propane, Phenylacetone, Phenylpropanolamine, paint thinner, freon, acetone and gasoline," he said, looking at Booth.

"All common ingredients in making meth," stated the Agent.

"Exactly," continued Hodgins. "I also found traces of polyolefin, a polymer used in synthetic lubricants, more commonly known as two stroke oil."

"What is two stroke oil?" asked Brennan.

"It is oil used in two stroke engines" he replied.

Hodgins loved it when he knew something that Dr. Brennan didn't. Smiling in a self-satisfied way, he continued. "Two stroke engines don't work the same as four stroke engines. They have to have oil mixed with the fuel before they are run, to help lubricate the moving parts.

"What has two stroke engines?" she inquired.

"Chain saws, motor cycles, outboard motors, lawn mowers- they are fairly common. However, I also found E-glass fibers, marine fiberglass. Our victim spent some time on a boat, likely one with an outboard motor, shortly before he died," he finished, handing his file to Brennan.

"I found him," said Angela. She had come back and was standing at the top of the stairs.

Everyone moved to follow her, as she walked to a computer and began pulling up the match from the NCIC database.

"Meet Evan Jensen," she said, turning to look at the group gathered around her, "he was 14."

"He was picked up for shoplifting three years ago," said Booth, leaning closer to the screen to read the details next to the picture. "Come on, we can pick up the file on the way," he said, moving towards the stair.

"On the way where?" asked Brennan, quickly taking off her lab coat as she followed the taller man towards the exit.

Booth stopped and turned back towards the anthropologist. "On the way to tell his family we found him and find out why, if he has been held captive for the last three weeks, there is no missing person's report," he said, before continuing out the door.

**To Be Continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting****, ****Kathy Reichs, and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 2**

Booth pulled up to the curb next to a small rundown house.

"This is the residence of Donald Jensen, Evan's father. His mother died four years ago."

They sat looking at the dilapidated building for a minute. Booth looked down at his paper work.

"This is the place," he said, checking the file again just to be sure."

"I wonder if anyone even lives here," Brennan questioned, as she climbed out of the vehicle.

They walked up the unkempt path to the door. White paint was peeling off the walls of the house. Booth knocked on the door loudly. They waited. He knocked again. "Mr. Jensen?" he called in a loud voice. A muffled voice could be heard from the inside of the small house.

"I'm comin'."

They could hear movement inside. Finally the door opened and there stood a man as unkempt as the house and yard. He was dressed in worn out jeans and a thin white tank top. The man leaned heavily on the doorframe, staring at them with angry, bloodshot eyes.

"I am Special Agent Booth, with the FBI," Booth said, showing the man his badge, "This is my associate, Dr. Brennan. Are you Donald Jensen?"

"I might be," said the man, standing up a little straighter. "What do you want?" he asked in an aggressive, defiant tone.

"Sir, we would just like to talk to you about your son, Evan. Can we come in?" the Agent asked, in a polite voice.

The man grunted and turned, walking back down the short hall towards the living room.

Brennan gave Booth a sidelong glance, which he returned, eyebrows raised, before leading the way into the cluttered house. The floor was covered with trash and empty beer cans. The man collapsed on the couch, picking up an open can of beer from the end table.

"Mr. Jensen, can you tell us when you last saw Evan?" Booth asked, notepad in hand.

"Nope," replied the man, taking a drink from the can in his hand.

"Didn't your son live with you?" asked Brennan, folding her arms across her chest.

"Sometimes, more or less," he replied in an indifferent voice.

"Sir, I am afraid we have to inform you that Evan is dead," Booth said, watching the man as the news sunk in.

"Dead? Figures," said the man, "He was a worthless kid. Up to no good, always in trouble. Running drugs, he was. Do you think he shared any of his earnings with his old man? Not a dime. Can't say I am surprised, always knew he would come to a bad end."

"You knew your son was running drugs and you didn't do anything to stop him?" Brennan asked, shocked at what she was hearing.

"Stop him? A job is a job, but you would think he could help out with food around here once in a while, pull his weight-" the man started, but Brennan cut him off.

"He was fourteen years old, what about school?" She could feel her anger rising.

"Eh," he grunted, taking another drink.

"Your son is dead, don't you even care?!" she asked, staring at the man on the couch. "We believe his death may have been tied to his involvement in drug trafficking."

"Bones," hissed Booth quietly, shooting her a look to tell her to be quiet.

"Well, look at him," she replied just as loudly, turning towards her partner. "We just told him his son is dead and all he can do is complain that the boy wouldn't buy beer for him."

"Bones, please," Booth hissed again, then turned to the man on the couch before she could say anything else. "Sir, you said that you were aware of his involvement in drugs, did you know any of his connections, maybe the people he worked for?"

"Nah, he never said," replied the man, "I never asked. I didn't want any part of that."

"Oh, but you didn't care that your 14-year-old son was involved in it and that it may have gotten him killed," Brennan said, her voice raising slightly with her anger.

"Bones," interjected Booth again.

"Look, lady," Jensen said, pointing a finger at the anthropologist, "you have no idea what it takes to raise a kid these-"

"Apparently, neither do you," retorted Brennan, cutting him off.

This time Booth interrupted. "Thank you for talking with us, Mr. Jensen. If you can think of anything else that might help us, please give us a call," he said, as he put his arm around Brennan's back and steered her towards the door.

Mr. Jensen didn't reply and didn't get up as they left the house.

Brennan allowed herself to be towed to the Tahoe. Once inside, she began to rant again.

"I just don't understand what kind of man, what kind of father, could just… not even care…" she trailed off.

"Bones, I know," Booth said, in an understanding voice, as he put his keys into the ignition.

"Evan Jensen was just a child, 14 years old. Alone, no parent, no guidance- he doesn't even have anyone to care that he is dead," Brennan ranted on at top speed; she always spoke quickly when she was angry.

"Hey, Bones, I know. It's okay," Booth said again, trying to calm her.

"No, Booth, it's not okay; no one should be alone like that. When this is what becomes of youth, we are failing as a society. Pushing adolescents into adulthood without any guidance-"

"Look," Booth interrupted, waiting for her to turn to him, "I didn't mean that this situation is okay, you just need to calm down. Take a step back. I will do some more searching and see if I can find any more family the boy might have had," he said, making eye contact with her as he spoke.

"Why? Do you think they might know something that can help us?" Brennan asked, staring back at his dark brown eyes.

"No," he replied, pulling the gear shift into drive, "but they might care that he's dead."

She stared at Booth a few seconds before a small smile started at the corner of her mouth. She rested her head back against the seat and let her gaze rest, unseeingly, out the window as they drove down the street.

"Bones, we will find out who killed him," Booth added, not taking his eyes off the road. "That is all we _can _do for him."

They drove in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Booth's phone rang, breaking the silence.

He pulled it from his pocket, flipping it open. "Booth," he answered, putting the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments then replied, "Okay, I'll be there shortly."

Closing the phone, he turned to meet Brennan's gaze. "They have arrested someone they believe to be associated with Alex McGregor, a well-known drug lord."

"What does that have to do with this case?" Brennan asked, in a somewhat irritated voice, unsure of the connection.

"Maybe nothing, but I would love to get ahold of McGregor. He may have nothing to do with Evan Jensen, but there are similarities between this case and several of the others we suspect him in. It is worth checking out; besides, we don't have any other leads at the moment," he replied, assessing her mood.

"Drop me at the lab, please," she stated, looking back at the road.

"Sure, Bones." He hesitated. "You usually like to interrogate people with me, what's up?"

"You suspect this guy; what we need is evidence to link him to the victim. I trust your judgment; I am going to go find your evidence," she replied, in a matter of fact tone.

"I'll get the file on this guy and the evidence from the murders he is suspected in. I can have them to you this afternoon," Booth said, smiling to himself, as they headed towards the Jeffersonian.

--

"Michael Donavan," Booth said, leaning back in his chair, in the interrogation room at the FBI building. Across the table from him sat a thin, blond-haired man, looking edgy.

"You're not a smart man, Donavan," the Agent continued. "You're taking all the heat here."

"Did you bring me in here and expect me to rat out my friends?" the man replied, in an irritated yet shaky voice.

"Friends?" the Agent questioned. "What friends? Oh, I know, the people you work for. The people that are so dear to you that you are willing to take the rap all by yourself. Those friends?"

The man fidgeted uncomfortably, rolling his eyes and looking towards the large one-way mirror on the wall behind the Agent.

"Look man, you don't know…" he stated, agitation and fear making his voice tremble again. "You don't know what he is capable of."

Booth let his chair fall forward and leaned across the table towards the man. "Oh, I think I do," he stated in a hard voice. He turned the file lying on the table in front of him around, so Donavan could see it well. "How many of these _friends_ do you recognize?" he asked, as he displayed the gruesome pictures in the file. "How many of these _friends_ got in too deep, or just made your boss angry?"

The blond leaned away from the table and the pictures. "I'm not saying anything, man," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "I can't."

"It's over, Donavan. You're already toast. What is he going to think when you don't check in? We got a whole lot of money and drugs off you. Don't think your boss will miss it?" the Agent continued. "Or better yet, he finds out we picked you up. Either way you are a loose cannon, one he is not going to leave as a liability very long."

"What do you want from me?" the thin man yelled. The agent's line of reasoning was getting to him. He looked at the ceiling shaking his head. "I don't know anything."

"We can offer you protection," the Agent said, sitting up straighter. "You give us McGregor, we give you a way out. Or we can just let you go and find your body a few weeks from now, or what's left of it," he added, gesturing at the pictures on the table.

The two men sat in silence, Booth's last statement hanging in the air. Donavan dropped his head into his hands and let out a shaky sigh. "You don't steal from him, you don't lie to him, and you don't do anything to get on his bad side."

"Or what?" the Agent pushed.

"Or what?" the man repeated, irritated, shoving the pictures and file back towards the Agent. "You don't cross him." The man looked at the wall, raising one hand to his mouth, rubbing his face.

"Where can I find him?" Booth asked.

The man didn't reply.

"We need to find him, we need to bring him in," the Agent said.

The man leaned back, staring at the Agent, with a calculating look. "Look, I really don't know much. There's this warehouse," he paused, shaking his head and looking at the table.

"Where?" the Agent questioned.

"The Brackenyard Warehouse, off the old Jefferson Davis Highway, it is abandoned. We would pick up and drop off there sometimes."

"I tell you what," said Booth, standing up and gathering his file, "you just keep thinking, see what else you can remember," he said, turning and walking out of the room.

--

Booth walked into the lab and, not seeing Brennan on the forensic platform headed for her office. Not finding her there, he set the file on her desk, when Angela walked by the door.

"Looking for Brennan?" she asked, seeing the Agent in the office.

"Yeah," replied Booth, walking towards the office door, "Do you know where she is?"

"She headed to karate, said she needed to work off some frustration," replied Angela concern coloring her voice. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, Evan Jensen's father is a real piece of work," he told her. "Look, when she gets back, can you tell I left the file on her desk?"

"Sure," said the artist, "I'll let her know. Where're you off to, hot date tonight?" she asked with a mischievous smile on her face.

"No, I am going to check out an old warehouse sometimes used for drug trafficking," he replied, a little annoyed with how Angela was constantly asking him about his love life.

"Well that sounds exciting," she said sarcastically, as she walked towards her office, "Don't have too much fun."

"Right," replied Booth, heading for the door.

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting****, ****Kathy Reichs,**** and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 3**

It was nearing twilight as Booth headed towards the warehouse. He wished Brennan would have been at the lab and been able to come with him. Partly because he knew how much she liked the fieldwork, and partly because big empty buildings were easier to search with a partner. Booth parked his vehicle as soon as he was in sight of the old warehouse. Silently he got out, drawing his gun as he went. He made his way along the edge of the road, keeping as close as possible to the embankment and staying in the shadows creeping out of the forest whenever possible. As he got closer, he could see the abandoned building across a wide parking lot. To the right of the building, a dark sedan was parked in the shadows. All was dark and still, no sign of movement from within. Two large bay doors stood open, allowing him a nice view of the interior of the building. There was a light on near the back of the large room. To the left of the building there were some trees and he opted to approach from that direction in the hopes of remaining concealed for as long as possible. Making almost no noise, he made his way towards the open building. He crept up to the side of the building and, seeing no sign of occupants, edged his way though the closest door and behind a stack of barrels. As silently and as quickly as he could, he began moving towards the back of the building. A noise caught his attention; a door, possibly to an office, opened and two people were talking. Booth strained to catch what they were saying.

"Well, pack up, we're leaving tonight. Donavan has not reported in and I don't like it. Now that we have what we need, it is time to move back to the boat."

The door shut and the man started walking towards the open bay doors. Booth edged around the barrels that concealed him, waiting for the man to get close enough. In one fluid movement he stepped out from behind the barrel, raised his gun and said, "FBI-- keep your hands where I can see them." The man stopped, a few feet from where Booth stood, surprise showing clearly on his face. A small smile lit his features as he looked at the gun and the man holding it. "Why, Agent Booth, this is a pleasant surprise."

The casual demeanor irritated Booth. He had been involved in cases against this man in the past. He had an air of civility that had always bothered the FBI Agent because he knew that underneath the facade he was capable of cruel torture and murder.

"It's over, McGregor, I am here to take you in."

Again, the man smiled. "That is very kind of you to offer, but I am afraid that won't fit into my agenda for this evening. You see, I have some other business to attend to."

"Well," said Booth, gun steady, as he aimed at the drug lord, "I am afraid I just ruined your plans."

"I think not, my good Agent," the man replied with an air of confidence that annoyed Booth to no end. He had to play along until he figured out what McGregor was hiding.

"What makes you so sure?" he questioned. Booth was good at reading people. McGregor seemed smug, like he had something working to his advantage, something Booth didn't know about yet, and he didn't like it. Of course, he could just be bluffing, but McGregor was not the kind of man to bluff. He believed he was smarter and superior to those around him and he preferred to flaunt his advantages, so whatever it was, it was most likely real.

The man chuckled softly. "You government hypocrites think you know everything, but two can play at that game."

The man was toying with him and Booth knew it.

"You see, Agent Booth, a couple weeks ago your little agency seems to have detained my right-hand man. Now, you and I both know that for any company to run smoothly, one needs his employees."

Booth's eyes narrowed. "Your 'company,' as you call it, smuggles illegal drugs into the United States for distribution. You destroy lives, you torture and brutally murder any who get in your way. That is hardly a business and your 'employee' was caught with over two hundred pounds of heroin, not something that we can just overlook."

"Tsk tsk, Booth, you do have a way of making it all sound so bad. I'm a businessman; I need to get my employee back so that I can get on with my business. Do forgive me, but I need to be going, so if you could just step aside…"

"McGregor, for a smart man, that is a pretty dumb request. What makes you think I am going to let you walk out of here tonight?" Booth said, adjusting his grip on his gun. If the man made a run for it, he would shoot.

"Oh, my dear Agent, I don't believe you have met our guest. HAROLD!" he yelled. "Do be so kind as to bring out the good doctor to meet our friend, Agent Booth."

Booth's stomach dropped; great, a hostage. He hated hostage situation, and the title "doctor" always brought the same person to his mind.

The door at the back opened again and a man stepped out pulling a woman roughly by the arm and holding a gun to her head. She was gagged and her hands bound behind her back. She had a cut on her eyebrow and a bruise rising on her cheek. She looked at him and his worst fears were confirmed, but he worked fast to hide the fear on his face.

"May I introduce Dr. Temperance Brennan," the drug lord said, in a friendly yet mocking voice. "She's a fairly well-known Anthropologist and best-selling author, perhaps you have heard of her? As I understand it, she even does some work with the FBI occasionally."

"A hostage, McGregor? I would have thought that was a little beneath you," he said, trying to keep his voice even and detached.

"Hostage, my good man? No, she is our guest," he said with a wicked smile. "She has graciously agreed to help in our negotiations with your little agency for the return of my employee."

Booth could feel the color draining from his face; he could see in his mind all victims suspected to be connected with McGregor and his drug operation, who had been so brutally and viciously murdered. His stomach was twisting in knots, but he had to keep his cool.

"What makes you think the FBI will negotiate with scum like you?" he spat, fighting hard to keep his head.

"Now, there is no need for hostilities. My sources tell me she is quite accomplished in her field and a valuable, rare resource. Surely that is of some value to you and your little federal buddies."

There was a taunting, mocking tone to his voice and it was all Booth could do not to shoot him on the spot.

"Besides," he continued, "she's quite spirited and I think she will prove to be lovely entertainment until negotiations can be completed."

Booth caught the implication behind his words and his hand twitched; he longed to shoot the man before him, with all his fake civil pretenses, but he had to keep calm and find a way out of this. His eyes flashed to Brennan, begging her to play along. It seemed McGregor didn't know about the partnership between them and he hoped to keep it that way.

"I can make you a better deal, McGregor. She is a civilian, a scientist. She is not connected with the FBI. I can give you something better," he said, with all the cockiness he could manage. "Take me in her place."

Brennan made a muffled cry and started to struggle, only to be jerked backwards by her hair. His eyes flashed to hers again, silently begging her to go with his plan. Quickly he looked back to McGregor. There was a calculating look in the drug lord's eyes. No doubt he was trying to think it though quickly, looking for any tricks or set ups.

"That is very noble of you, what is she to you?" he asked, eyeing the Federal Agent with curiosity.

"Like I said, she's a civilian; there is no reason to involve anyone else in this. Let's just keep it between you and the FBI. We took down your right-hand man, think about it McGregor," Booth continued. "An FBI Agent as a hostage; 'employee' for 'employee' as you put it." He could see his reasoning working on the man.

"She stays here and you come willingly?" McGregor stated, still eyeing Booth with a calculating stare. "A federal Agent is much more to my liking, although admittedly you won't be as much fun. Very well, I think we have an agreement. "Harold," he said over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Booth's face. "Escort the good doctor to a chair and make her comfortable."

Booth watched as the man roughly dragged Brennan to a chair and began tying her to it.

"Wait," said Booth, "let me call someone to come get her. It could be days before she is found out here."

The drug lord's eyes narrowed, as he considered the request. "Very well, Agent Booth, because I am a businessman of high standing, I will allow you to make your call; but let me warn you, one funny word and that will be the end of the Dr. Brennan."

With slow, measured movements, Booth pulled his phone off his belt, dialed the familiar number and placed it to his ear. It rang twice before a voice answered, "Doctor Hodgins."

Booth switched to autopilot, using all the formalities he was used to when dealing with people he didn't know. "Yes, this is Special Agent Booth with the FBI, Doctor Temperence Brennan is at the Brackenyard warehouse, off the Old Jefferson Highway, and needs to be picked up."

"Booth, what-" Hodgins started, but Booth snapped the phone shut.

The drug lord was staring at him with a smug expression on his face. Booth slowly bent down and set his service gun on the ground. With the same exaggerated slowness, he removed the .38 from his ankle and set it next to his service gun. Slowly he straightened back up, hands in the air.

"Harold," the drug lord called again, a look of triumph in his eyes, "would you please come carry Agent Booth's guns for him and escort him to the car." The man standing behind Brennan moved forward, towards the unarmed Agent.

Booth looked at Brennan; he knew her well, he cold see the anger in her eyes at what he had just done, the frustration at her own helplessness in this situation, and the fear underlying it all. A small smile lit his face. She would have to understand, she was his partner, his friend, and from the first day he took her into the field with him, she was his responsibility. It was his job to take care of her and he would do that job, whatever it cost him.

Harold approached Booth from the side and quickly secured his hands behind his back. Once they were secure, he punched him, hard in his left side, just above the kidney.

The pain was evident on Booth's face, but he made no noise. Brennan was still staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. He gave her the slightest of nods, as he allowed himself to be drug sideways towards the waiting car. When they reached the vehicle, Harold punched him again in the side and then brought his elbow down hard against the top of Booth's shoulder. Again the Agent made no cry of pain; but as he fell slightly forward, the man behind him shoved him hard into the back seat, slamming the door behind him.

McGregor turned to Brennan, inclining his hat, "Good day to you Doctor," he said, a malicious smile on his face. He then turned and went to the car. As he shut his door, the car sped towards the road and was soon out of sight, leaving Brennan alone in the warehouse.

**To Be Continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, ****Kathy Reichs,**** and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 4**

Hodgins sat at his workstation, bent over a microscope, as usual. He was working late, trying to identify the organic matter from the victim's jacket.

The phone rang. Looking up from his task, he picked up the receiver. "Dr. Hodgins," he answered.

"Yes, this is Special Agent Booth with the FBI, Doctor Temperance Brennan is at the Brackenyard Warehouse, off the Old Jefferson Highway, and needs to be picked up. "

"Booth, what is going-" Hodgins began, but the line went dead. He sat staring at the phone in his hand for a moment.

"Are you almost done? It's getting late," Angela said, coming up behind him.

Hodgins turned to look at her, confusion on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Who was on the phone?"

"It was Booth, I think he and Brennan are in trouble," he said, as he stood up and grabbed his jacket.

"What?!" What did he say? Hey, where are you going?" she asked, as she followed him towards the door.

"He said Dr. Brennan is at the Brackenyard warehouse, off the Old Jefferson Highway, and needs to be picked up. He was being very formal, almost as if someone was listening to the conversation. When I answered the phone, he identified himself as Agent Booth with the FBI, told me where Brennan was, then hung up. Something is definitely wrong," he said as he headed out the door.

"Jack."

He stopped and turned around. Angela's eyes were filled with worry.

"Please, be careful." she said, her tone almost begging.

He took a step back towards her and kissed her cheek. "Booth wouldn't lead me into danger, but they need help. I will be right back, I promise." He kissed her again and headed quickly out the door.

--

It was a bright night, the trees casting shadows across the road as he drove towards the warehouse. When the warehouse was in sight, Hodgins killed the lights and slowed the car. He was no "special agent," but he had watched enough cop shows to know better than to go flying in with lights blazing. As he approached the parking lot at a crawl, he turned in, sticking to the left side, as far from the open bay doors as possible. He skirted the parking approaching the building on the left side. He stopped the car just out of sight of the doors, turned the dome light off, so it would not come one when he opened the door, and silently got out of the vehicle, not shutting the door behind him. He crept into the open warehouse and quietly made his way to the back of the room, towards the only light source. He had every confidence that Booth wouldn't lead him into danger; but still, if they were in enough trouble that they needed his help, he had to be careful.

As he neared the back of the room he saw her. She was tied to a chair, her head down, chin resting on her chest.

"Dr. Brennan!" He went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders and dropping to his knees in front of her.

To his immense relief, she looked up at him. There was a nasty cut above her left eye and a bruise on her cheek. Quickly, he untied the material gagging her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as he worked to free her mouth.

"Hodgins," she gasped when she was freed. "They took him, they were going to take me, but he talked them out of it. They have him; we have to do something."

She said all of this very fast. As he untied her arms, he tired to calm her down.

"Dr. Brennan," he said in a calm voice, "Are you okay?"

As soon as she was freed of the ropes holding her, she sprang to her feet and moved towards a door to her right that stood slightly ajar.

"I am not sure where they are going, they said something about a boat; we have to hurry," she continued at top speed, ignoring his question.

Hodgins grabbed her arm pulling her back. She looked at him, with an almost frantic look in her eyes. He had never seen her so agitated. It was a drastic contrast to the calm, rational scientist he worked with.

"Dr Brennan, calm down," he said in a low steady voice. "Tell me what happened. How did you come to be here and where is Booth?"

She took a deep breath. "You're right, I'm sorry," she said, running her fingertips across her forehead. "Okay, I was on my way to karate. As I was leaving the parking lot, someone came up behind me. There was a struggle." She paused, as if trying to sort through her memories. "I think they hit me over the head," she said as she gingerly touched the back of her head, wincing as she did so.

"When I came to, I was here, tied up and gagged, with two other men. They were talking about negotiations with the FBI and a boat; they were talking about a boat. They said they were going back to the boat. Then the first guy headed out towards the doors and I heard him talking to someone. After a bit, he called to the second guy, called him Harold, and Harold grabbed me and dragged me out the door. The first guy was standing over there," she said, pointing, " And Booth was in front of him, holding his gun. Booth called the guy McGregor. They talked for a little while…" She paused, closing her eyes, and let out a sigh. "He convinced them to take him as a hostage in my place," she continued, her voice becoming a little shaky.

She turned away from Hodgins, walking around a little as she continued. "He convinced them to let him make a phone call, to you, I presume." She took another deep breath. "Then they put him in the car and drove away," she finished, looking at Hodgins again.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "We'll find him," he said.

"Thank you," Brennan said, giving him half a smile. "We need to find that boat."

"Well, let's go look for some dirt," he said, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. "I keep an evidence kit in my car, I will be right back."

When he returned, he found Dr. Brennan in a small room to the right of where she was tied to the chair, leaning over a table. Together, they scoured the room, collecting dirt, dust, shavings, and everything they could that might help them in finding these people.

--

Dr. Brennan was sitting in her office, seemingly lost in thought, when Angela came to the door. She stood there for a few minutes watching her friend.

"Brennan," she said softly.

There was no response from the woman sitting at the desk.

"Brennan," she said again a little bit louder.

Still no change. Angela's forehead creased with concern.

"Brennan," she said, still louder yet.

The archeologist started and looked towards the door.

"Oh Ange, sorry. Anything new?" she asked, turning away from the desk.

"Brennan," the artist began, but she was cut off.

"Angela, I'm fine, really," said the scientist, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone.

"No, sweetie, you're not, and that's okay," she said as she moved into the office and towards the desk.

The anthropologist turned back to the open case file she had been looking through on her desk. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to compose herself. There was silence for a moment.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Angela prodded gently.

"I just don't understand," Brennan stated abruptly, her voice a little louder than she intended. She stood and walked around the desk, her frustration getting the better of her. "It is just not rational. Why would he do something like that?"

Angela watched her friend pace around the office. She knew the answer, of course, it was totally obvious to everyone-- everyone except for them.

"He cares about you, sweetie," she said in a soft voice.

"Angela, please," Brennan started, but Angela continued.

"Look he's your partner, your friend. It is not like this is the first time he has risked his life for you."

"I know, Angela, but this is different." She sat down on the couch, holding her face in her hands for a moment before she continued.

"He is a very skilled agent, a loyal friend. He has shot people trying to hurt me, he has shielded me, he even took a bullet for me. He has protective reflexes. It is part of what makes him a good Federal Agent. He is a classic example of the "alpha-male role", protector to those around him. Even the most basic of societal grouping has those whose job it is to protect others. These are generally the young healthy males in the group…" She stopped her rambling and took a deep breath. "It is built into his nature to protect, a reflex."

She paused, turning to look at Angela. "This was not a reflex. This was a carefully executed plan. He talked them into it, into taking him instead of me. He made logical, rational arguments, persuading them that he would make a better hostage. Ange, he knows these people, knows the brutality they are capable of," she said, gesturing towards the open file on her desk. "He has worked cases against them for years. How could he just…" she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat.

"Brennan, he cares about you," the artist repeated, her tone full of understanding and sympathy.

The anthropologist opened her mouth to argue, but Angela continued without giving her the chance.

"If you can't look at it that way, then think about this: you would have done the same thing for him. It is part of the whole 'cop-partner-relationship-thing.' Every day you put your lives on the line for each other. It is part of the job. Yes, he knows what they are capable of, that is why he did it. He couldn't let you get into something like that." The artist paused, letting that sink in.

"Sweetie, you are frustrated and feel helpless. You are not really mad at him. You are scared for him. This cost him everything, so that you could walk away. Just remember that you've risked everything you have, your life even, to help him before. How can you be mad at him for doing what you would have done yourself?"

She paused for a moment, and then added, "And while you're thinking about that, think about what that says." She gave Brennan a small smile.

The two sat for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. At length, Brennan broke the silence.

"I called the FBI, after Hodgins showed up, and told them about Booth and everything I could remember about these men. They sent their forensic team out to do the same thing we're doing. They, of coarse, told me to stay out of it, and reminded me that I am not a cop. They are shutting me out, just like they did when he disappeared last time." She turned to look at the artist. "He is my partner, Ange, I have to help, I have to do something. He is there because of me."

Angela came and sat on the couch next to her friend. "I know, sweetie, we'll find him," she said, resting her hand on Brennan's arm.

Just then, Hodgins walked into the office. "I found something," he said as he stood in front of them.

Brennan jumped to her feet. "What do you have?" she asked, looking at him imploringly.

"We found E-glass fibers or marine fiber glass, which is no surprise as we know they have a boat. However, the particulates we found show no traces of sodium chloride," he turned to Angela, "indicating no saltwater. Obviously, their boat is not in the ocean. But we did find traces of Methanobacterium ruminantium and Methanosarcina barkeri. Now, Methanobacterium ruminantium is found in regions of high-organic-silt sediments. Methanosarcina barkeri are identified in sand-silt, clay, or sand sediments. I also identified pollen from Cyperus acuminatus, commonly known as umbrella-sedge, and Eleocharis engelmannii, or Engelmann's Spike, which are both water vegetation seldom seen, only during periods of lower water levels--"

"Hodgins, the shortened version, please," Brennan interrupted.

"Right, sorry. Harold and or McGregor have recently been at the southern end of Lake Erie," he said, with a triumphant smile on his face.

"Hodgins, you are a genius!" Brennan said, turning from him back to the woman on the couch. "Angela, can I have the sketches of those men that I described to you?"

"Sure they are in my office; where are you…" she began, but Brennan hurried out the door.

Angela got up and followed the slender woman to her own office, Hodgins right behind her.

"I am going to the FBI building," she said, emerging from the artist's room, sketches in hand. "We will see if they can keep me out of this one."

The anthropologist headed quickly out of the lab. Angela turned to Hodgins, a smile on her face. "You truly are amazing, you know that?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He placed his arms around her waist, "I have my moments," he said, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

He turned and looked towards the lab doors, the smile fading from his face. "I just hope it is enough," he added, looking at the empty door way.

**To Be Continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, ****Kathy Reichs,**** and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 5**

"Dr. Brennan," he said, the annoyance and attempt at self-control evident in his voice. "As I have already told you, there is no more information I can share with you at this time. If you will go back to your lab, we will contact you-"

"That is not good enough," she interrupted, her voice rising to match her frustration. "Director Cullen, he is my partner, you can't just shut me out."

Sam Cullen, Deputy Director of the FBI, sat across his desk from a very stubborn, very angry, anthropologist. One he had come to respect through Booth and her involvement in a case involving his own daughter. Booth was not exaggerating when he told Cullen about her stubbornness, nor about her skill, but she was not FBI and he didn't want her involved. If Booth wanted to take responsibility for her, taking her into the field, that was fine. Even he had to admit they made a great team, but she was just too close to this one. Emotional women never help in a hostage situation.

"Great, now I have a 'Squint' telling me what I can and can't do," he said, his temper rising.

"I was there!" she said with a steel edge in her voice. "I was abducted by these men and held captive for over four hours. I have provided you with approximate age, race, and physical descriptions, complete with sketches of their faces. I gave you the make and model of their car. As well as everything they talked about while I was with them." She stopped and took a breath. "My team has identified particulates from the room they held me in that tie them to a location for their boat. Sir, I am willing to find him on my own, but I think we would be better off working together," she finished, with a hard look in her eyes.

At her last statement he had leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. He was thinking it through again; she _could_ be helpful. The FBI did have their own forensic team; but, though he would never admit it, the lab at the Jeffersonian was better. She seemed pretty determined and he had no doubt she would try to find Booth on her own. Better to have her where someone could keep an eye on her, he decided, rather than having her get herself killed.

"Fine." He let out a frustrated sigh and leaning towards her slightly, added, "but let me make it clear, I am in charge here. You will take orders from me and do _NOTHING_ without clearing it with me first. Do you understand that Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, surprised by the fact that she won. Maybe Booth's ability to get what he wanted out of people was rubbing off on her.

"This morning we received this," Cullen said, reaching in his desk and pulling out a padded manila envelope with FBI written across the front of it. He tossed it on the desk in front of her. "It was delivered by a vagrant. He said someone paid him twenty dollars to come drop it off."

Slipping a latex glove on her right hand, she picked up the envelope and opened it. Gently, she pulled out a flip-style black leather case smeared with blood. Opening it, she saw the badge and ID card for Special Agent Seeley Booth.

"I can save you the trouble," he said, guessing her thoughts. "Our lab has identified it as Booth's blood. It came with a note demanding an exchange, Booth for one Nathaniel Creavor."

He reached for a file sitting to his right on the desk and casually flipped through it as he continued. "Creavor was picked up two weeks ago in a major drug bust in Atlantic City. He is believed to be McGregor's right hand man."

He pulled a picture of the man out and slid it toward Dr. Brennan. She picked it up, studying the face.

"Even if that's true, McGregor's actions seem a little extreme. Creavor is obviously very important to him. Generally, a drug dealer's henchmen are expendable, but he is going to a lot of trouble to get Creavor back."

"This man," said Brennan, looking at the photo, "look at the jaw line, and the cheek bones." She picked up the sketch of McGregor she had brought. "See the how the lower jaw bone is really defined here?" There is a chance that they are related. I doubt that they share both parents, but perhaps grandparents," she said, tracing the picture with her finger.

"You can tell that from looking at the picture and a sketch?" the director asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not just the sketch, I spent 4 hours with this man," she said, slightly annoyed, "The underlying architecture is similar; it doesn't guarantee that they are related, but there is a statistical probability that they share a relative no more than one generation back," she said, handing the picture of Creavor back to him.

"Well, we have people looking into Creavor's history. The note said they would contact us again with a date, time, and location for the exchange." Cullen flipped the file shut and tossed it back to the side of his desk.

"He is a smart man, McGregor. He is playing with us, dragging it out, trying to make us dance to his tune. He enjoys feeling like he is the one in control. As his group is suspect in the Jensen case you were working with Booth, I am sure you have seen his file. He is a nasty bit of work but we have never been able to tie him to the murders directly. At least not yet," he said, looking at her with a meaningful smile.

"Now," he said, leaning slightly towards her and resting his folded hands on the table in front of him, "you tell me what you have, where would you guess Booth is being held?"

Dr. Brennan looked at the man across the desk. _Why do FBI agents have such a hard time with the concept of facts? _she wondered to herself.

"Director Cullen, first of all, I do not guess. I work with facts. In the evidence that we recovered from the room where I was held, we found no traces of sodium chloride, which suggests that they have not been near saltwater. What we did find indicates that McGregor and or Harold have recently been to Lake Erie, most likely the southern end. They stated that they were heading back to a boat. Logical reasoning suggests that they headed back to Lake Erie. I cannot say whether Booth is there or not, all I have are the facts we found."

--

Booth sat in a small cabin near the back of the boat, tied to a chair. He had a bloody swollen lip and a black eye as well as bruise on his left cheek. His body ached from repeated beatings and he was fairly sure he had some cracked ribs at the very least. Taking even a normal breath was like someone was stabbing him in the side with a knife. He sat still, staring forward, refusing to make eye contact or acknowledge the man speaking. Before him stood McGregor, looking very smug.

"And so here we sit, Agent Booth. I trust you are enjoying your stay with us," the businessman said, in a mocking voice. "Don't worry, I am sure your buddies will make the exchange tomorrow and you will be free of our care."

"You think you are pretty smart, McGregor," said Booth, breaking his stony silence, "you think you have it all figured out, think you are in control. For all your cunning plans, you know pretty little about how things work."

"Why, Agent Booth, you're not worried are you?" asked McGregor, with a malicious smile on his face. "Surely you believe they will make the exchange, or you would not have put yourself in this situation." The man laughed, shaking his head. "Your Agent buddies are currently wasting time and man power searching the coastline and bay areas for this boat." He tilted his head to one side, a grin spreading across his face. "That's a lot of shoreline to cover. They have just over twenty-four hours to make these futile attempts. Tomorrow we will contact them again and give them just two and a half hours to be at the rendezvous point, which is two hours from DC. Then we will make the exchange, or your tragic demise will be on their heads."

"Overconfidence, McGregor, is the downfall of every idiot criminal," Booth stated, still refusing to make eye contact. "You are going down; when this is all over with, you'll be finished."

"You are hardly in a position to make threats, seeing as you are currently tied to a chair," McGregor said, leaning down so he was eye to eye with the Agent.

"Cocky overconfidence," Booth repeated slowly. "You are going down," he said with a superior smile on his face.

In a reflexive movement, McGregor balled his fist and punched his hostage across the face. He was not accustomed to being mocked and he found he had low tolerance when antagonized. He winced, shaking his hand slightly.

"You made me lose my temper, Agent Booth, not something easily done. I assure you, you won't do it again," he said, straightening himself and rubbing his hand.

Despite the fact that his lip was bleeding freely again, Booth looked up at McGregor and gave him a smug smile.

McGregor shoved past the restrained man, bumping his shoulder roughly as he passed. As he stalked from the cabin, he gave a small nod to the only other occupant in the room, who returned it with a malicious grin.

Booth winced at the pain in his ribs as McGregor passed him. He knew he was about to pay for angering the drug lord, but people like McGregor weren't accustomed to being defied. He wasn't going to just play along and be a pawn in McGregor's game.

**To Be Continued...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, Kathy Riechs, and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 6**

They drove in silence for a long time. Dr. Brennan sat staring out the passenger side window, not really seeing the scenery as it flashed by. She was fairly sure the Deputy Director of the FBI did not like her. Their professional relationship had improved, somewhat, after she had helped in a case involving his daughter. She knew at least that he respected her in her field; but he believed- somewhat strongly, she thought- that "squints" belonged in the lab, not in the field. _Was he right?_ she mused. It was her fault one of his best agents was being held hostage by a murderous drug lord. _Does he blame me?_ She blamed herself. She had not been "in the field" when she was abducted, she was going to karate class. She was sure that McGregor didn't know that she and Booth were even partners, but the fact remained that he had taken her place.

"You feel guilty."

She was broken out of her silent reverie when he spoke. It was not a question. She turned from the window to look at him, with a cool calculating expression on her face. _What is it with FBI guys and psychology?_ she wondered. _It's like they are all mind readers. _

She made no response, so the Deputy Director continued, "He didn't do it just because you're his partner; he would have tried to help whoever they had. That is just the kind of person he is."

"He's a good man," she replied.

Director Cullen was a man of few words and she knew he was trying to make her feel better. She appreciated the gesture, but she did not want to have this conversation again.

She turned back towards the window, not seeing the road fly by. He was somewhere, probably being tortured right now, because of her and nothing anyone could say would change that.

"He's a good man, a good agent, and he is a lucky man." Cullen stated, not looking at her but focusing on the road.

She turned again towards him, a little confused by what he had just said.

"If anyone has a chance of finding him, Dr. Brennan, it is you and your team" he stated, glancing her way.

She gave him a small smile, and looked down at her hands. "You have a lot of confidence in us," she said, turning to stare out the window again.

"I have seen what you are capable of," he replied. "Booth has absolute faith in you. He believes there's nothing you can't do."

"Did he tell you that?" she asked, looking up at him again.

He just smiled at her. "He's a good man," he repeated, turning back to the road.

--

Brennan was hot, cramped and somewhat stiff from sitting all day. Across from her, behind the wheel sat Deputy Director Cullen, a radio in his lap and his cell phone to his ear. They were sitting in a sporty-looking SUV with dark tinting, parked at a busy dock near Cleveland. Across her lap were several maps of the lake and surrounding areas with lines and writing strewn across them.

She and Cullen made up the Incident Command or IC, as the Agents addressed them over the radio. There were thirty or so Agents working in groups of twos and threes, dressed as happy lake goers on ski boats, houseboats, fishing boats, and even a few on Jet Skis, as well as a couple on the Lake Patrol boats, slowly making their rounds. All of these Agents were inconspicuously calling in boat registrations, looking for a boat that could be connected to any of the suspects in this case.

They had arrived just after noon and had spent a frustrating afternoon waiting. She had never been very good at the whole stakeout thing, and this one had been very long. Cullen had informed her that because McGregor or his accomplices might recognize her, she would not be allowed to help in the search. While his reasoning was valid, she suspected he didn't plan on letting her out of his sight. She hated sitting around and doing nothing.

"Okay, thanks," he said, snapping his phone shut. "You were right," he remarked, turning towards her, "Augustine Duarte was married to Jonathan Creavor. Both died in a car accident in 1970, leaving their three year old son to her sister, Marissa, who was married to Hector McGregor."

"They had a son, Alex McGregor," Brennan finished for him. "So they are cousins, McGregor and Creavor, raised as brothers. That explains why McGregor is trying so hard to get him back. It's a family business."

"Team Leader 6 to IC," the radio chirped.

"IC, go ahead," replied Cullen, raising the radio to his mouth.

"F-11 cleared, moving to F-12."

"Copy that, Team Leader 6," said Cullen, lowering the radio back to his lap.

The frequency they were using had a scrambler, so if anyone else was listening, they would not be able to understand them.

Brennan picked up her pencil and marked off another quadrant on the map. The teams were tediously making their way through the lake, targeting any boat with sleeping quarters. They had been at this for six hours and the waiting was making her agitated. She understood the logical reasoning and methodical approach to searching such a large area for a boat, which they didn't even know what looked like, but she was frustrated by her own uselessness.

"Team Leader 10, IC," the radio sounded again.

"IC, go ahead," Cullen replied, reaching for his pen.

"Sir, we found it-- a 24-foot houseboat, registered to Michael Creavor, out of Detroit, near the Sheldon Marsh Nature Preserve."

"Copy that, Team Leader 10, IC is moving toward your location," he said, dropping the radio and starting the vehicle. He turned to Brennan.

"They are in Quadrant J-23," she said, folding one map and reaching for another. "It is near the east side of the Sandusky Bay area."

_Finally, they found it_, she thought, _but the hardest part of the day isn't over yet._

--

Booth slowly opened his eyes, returning to consciousness. Closing them again, he lay perfectly still, trying to recall the last torture session, which had rendered him unconscious. His mind was fuzzy on details at the moment, so he concentrated instead on his body, trying to separate new pains from earlier injuries. A sharp kick to his stomach interrupted his thoughts, knocking the air out of him. He could hear the footsteps of his assailant and captor, reverberating in the floorboard next to his ear, as the man walked towards the back of the room.

Waiting for his breath to return and the pain to ease, he tried to remain still. Suddenly, he was grabbed by a strong pair of hands and hauled upright, then slammed back into the chair he had been tied to earlier. Pain shot across his back from the gashes left there by the split bamboo cane they had beaten him with. He let out an audible gasp and the man securing his hand behind the chair laughed.

"This is a tough one," Harold said, finishing with the ropes. "No screaming like most of 'em do."

He slapped Booth across the back of the head. "You're brave, G-man, but I bet we can make you scream before it's over, even beg. Or are you too proud for that?" He laughed again, "We'll see…"

Booth made no reply to the taunting. He just looked straight ahead, not making eye contact.

"I'm gonna get some dinner. Ron, you want me to bring ya anything?" he asked, turning away from Booth.

"No, I'm fine," came the reply from the man at the back of the room.

"Come on then, when is the last time you ate something, Ronny?" the man inquired, walking towards the door.

"I've already told you I'm fine," the man retorted, anger coloring his voice, "Go eat your supper, and leave me be."

"You're doing it again, aren't you," the man questioned, stopping near the door.

"Mind your own business," Ron snapped back.

"But you know the boss doesn't like us using, not while we're on guard duty," continued the man, mild warning in his tone.

"Get out!" snarled Ron, taking a step towards the man in the door way. "Or I'll do to you what I did to him," he hissed, gesturing towards Booth. "And don't come back to bother me until it's your turn to take over."

Booth heard the cabin door shut abruptly. Gaining control of his breathing somewhat, he tried to concentrate, listening to what the man at the back of the room was doing. It sounded like he was assembling something at the counter along the far wall. He heard the strike of a match and then smelled the smoke after it was blown out_. The man had lit a candle?_ Booth wondered idly. Then Booth noticed that the rope securing his hands was looser than normal. Slowly, he started moving his hands, trying to free them. He didn't want to gain the attention of the man behind him.

While he silently worked on the rope, Booth let his eyes wander around the cabin, taking stock of where he was. He sat in a chair in the middle of the room. It seemed to be used mostly for storage and supplies, when they didn't have someone to torture. There were gas cans and ropes, boat wax, unmarked cardboard boxes, what looked like a tackle box, and a propane bottle for a small grill. To his left he could see fishing poles, more rope, a bucket of various cleaning supplies and several bottles of two-stroke oil. To his right there was a window looking out over the water. It was slowly turning to evening, but in Ohio in the summer he knew the sun would not set until almost nine. Judging by the angle of the light outside, he guessed it was close to six or seven, giving them only two or three hours until dark. Guard change would not be until midnight and, given the conversation between the two men that just took place, it was likely no one else would come to disturb them until then. That might just give him his chance to escape, if he could just get the ropes off his hands.

--

Cullen stopped the vehicle as they approached the edge of the lake, staying out of direct sight of the water. Through the trees he could see a large houseboat anchored off the shore.

"This is it," he said, as he opened his door and stepped out. Brennan followed suit, stretching. It felt good to finally be out of the car. Another vehicle pulled up behind them and five Agents, belonging to the tactical dive team, filed out, coming to join them. Brennan handed Cullen the map and he spread it on the hood of the car.

"Team Leader 10 and six agents are in position here," he said, pointing to the map. "Team Leader 6 and the two agents with him are on a patrol boat, making its way up along here," he said, gesturing again. "The sun won't set for an hour or so. That gives you plenty of time to get suited up and in position. We are waiting until dusk, then you go in."

The agents nodded and returned to their vehicle, pulling out bags and diving gear.

"I want to go with them," said Brennan.

"Not a chance," replied Cullen, without even looking at her.

"Sir, I can-" she began.

"NO," he said, still not looking up from the map.

"Director Cullen," she began again.

"Dr. Brennan," he interrupted, finally looking at her, "you are not a certified diver, you are not trained in hostage negotiations, or tactical entry and you are not going anywhere until that boat is secured. Any questions?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Giving him a hard look, she turned, without a word, to look at the lake visible through the trees. The planning continued behind her, agents suiting up and going over positioning and entry strategy. Brennan stepped closer to the trees getting a better view of the lake. Maybe half a mile from where she stood was a large two-storey houseboat. It was anchored kind of diagonally from where she stood, giving her a very good view of the bow and starboard side of the boat. Off the port side, maybe 400 yards back, was a small outcropping of land, which gave the boat some degree of seclusion from the rest of the lake. A movement caught her eye, someone came out onto the deck and walked towards the bow looking down at the water then turned and headed down the port side of the boat, still staring at the water as he went.

"That's him," she said quietly turning back to the others. "That's McGregor."

Cullen came quickly to her side, binoculars in hand. "How can you tell at this distance?" he asked, raising the binoculars to his eyes.

"I can tell by the way he walks," she replied, "he has a slight limp on his left side, probably due to a knee injury.

Cullen slowly lowered the glasses, giving her an odd look before raising them back to his eyes once more.

"I would guess high school football," she added, still watching as the small figure moved out of sight.

"We have our target," Cullen announced, looking at the assembled diving team standing around them. "Agent Nicolls," he added, addressing the Dive Team leader, "you'll take your team--"

_**KABOOM!**_

For the length of two heartbeats everyone froze, all eyes were fixed on the boat as a large ball of fire shot out the back of the cabin, engulfing the rear of the boat in flames and leaving the it rocking in the water.

"Team Leader 10, Team Leader 6 we have an explosion near the rear of the boat. Go! Go!"

Brennan could hear Cullen giving orders into his radio behind her, but his words were garbled to her. Her mind switched to autopilot, reasoning, trying to determine the most likely place to keep a hostage on a boat like this, the size of the explosion, the survival odds for someone next to it, in the same room, on that half of the boat…

"And Dr. Brennan, where do you think you're going?"

His voice pulled her out of her mental calculations. She was unaware that she had moved several paces towards the shore. She turned back towards him a glazed, stunned look in her eyes, but when she spoke her voice was firm, businesslike. "There'll be bodies to be identified," she said, "I'll need my bag."

He appraised her for a moment. Was it relief she saw flit across his face?

"Team Leader 7 will be at the shore in ten minutes to pick us up," he said, as she retrieved her bag from the car. "Let's go."

**To Be Continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, ****Kathy Reichs,**** and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 7**

Brennan entered the cabin at the stern. Thanks to the close proximity of the patrol boat equipped with a fire hose, they were able to salvage much of the large ship. The front half was untouched by the fire and it was still afloat at least. The agents first on the scene did a quick sweep of the boat looking for survivors. They found none. They did locate two bodies at the rear of the boat, near the origination of the blast.

Everything was charred and blackened in the rear cabin. The ceiling above had been consumed in the explosion.

"Based on the scorch marks, I would say it started with a fire which met an accelerant, most likely fuel of some kind," she said, gazing around the room. Her eyes came to rest on the blackened skeleton a few feet from her. She looked the body over carefully, kneeling gently on the charred remains of the cabin floor.

"Due to the amount of debris under, rather than on top of the body, and the position of the limbs, I would say that this body was in the room above when the explosion occurred," she said in a firm businesslike tone, as she assessed the first victim. "If the ceiling is collapsing, natural reflexes would cause your arms to come up and try to protect yourself. This body's limbs are splayed as if trying to brace for a fall."

"The victim is male… Caucasian… early to mid thirties," she continued, her voice a little unsteady for the first time. Her hands were shaking as she leaned forward to move a piece of debris from the charred remains before her.

The Deputy Director stood behind Dr. Brennan, watching her as she worked.

"Sir," called an Agent addressing Cullen. He turned towards the door. "We found this, in the main cabin," the agent stated, holding up a clear evidence bag containing a black handgun. Cullen recognized it immediately as a .40 caliber semi automatic Glock, standard issue to all FBI personnel. He nodded to the agent.

"The serial number confirms it as Booth's service gun," the Agent stated, in a softer tone.

"Thanks, Connelly," said Cullen, turning back towards the woman in front him, leaning over the remains.

She had her flashlight in one hand, examining the teeth of the victim. His stomach sank. It looked like he had lost a good agent, one of his best. He just hoped McGregor would be identified as the other body. Watching her carefully, he worried how Brennan would react when she identified this body or the other one as Booth's. The death of a partner was one of the worst things to deal with in this job. He was unsure how the woman in front of him would react and he needed to be ready for the worst. She was very 'compartmentalized' or at least that's the word that Dr. Sweets, the psychologist assigned to evaluate the two of them after Booth arrested Brennan's father, frequently used when he spoke about her. But he doubted anyone could kneel over a pile of charred remains and identify them as the person they spent every day with and not lose it a little, especially a partnership like these two had. They worked together better then any other team he had ever seen. They argued constantly, and no one could really understand why they even worked together, but you couldn't say they weren't effective.

The doctor stood and quickly made her way to the second body, flashlight still in her hand. Cullen followed her, trying to decide how to say what needed to be said. He watched her hands, shaking visibly as she examined the skull and then the teeth. She was afraid, afraid that she was about to have the truth confirmed for her. Cullen shook his head slowly as he watched her work.

"It's not him," she said quietly, letting out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. "It's not him," she repeated a little louder. She stood, turning to Cullen. "Neither of these bodies are Booth," she announced, the relief evident in her voice.

"How can you be sure?" he asked, wanting to believe her, but not sure he could.

"Two years ago, he lost his anterior molar on the left side and both of these skulls have their original molars," she said, smiling at him.

He returned her smile, his relief evident on his face. Looking at her he could see moisture in her eyes. _So she is normal_, he thought to himself, j_ust very controlled_. As he watched her, her face fell, the relief being replaced again by dread and uncertainty.

"Then where is he?" she asked, still looking at Cullen, a calculating look in her eye.

She crouched down and began examining the remains again, this time focusing on the legs. Cullen watched her in silence.

Dr. Brennan stood quickly and returned to the first body and began examining its legs. Normally she would have conducted a thorough exam to begin with, but at the moment she was more concerned with who it wasn't than identifying who it was.

"Neither of these victims show any sign of injury to the lower limbs, old or recent," she announced.

Culled paused, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn't expound on her finding he prompted her, "And that's relevant because--?"

"Neither of these men, would walk with a limp," she added, seeing he was not on her train of thought.

"So where is McGregor?" asked the Deputy Director.

An Agent stuck his head around the doorframe. "We've found blood, sir," he stated.

Brennan was first out the door. She followed the Agent around to the port side of the boat. Nearing the edge of the scorch marks from the fire, he stopped, pointing at the outer wall of the ship. There was a long smear of blood going along the side, which had been partially washed off by the fire hose. She pulled out her UV light and shined it on the deck beside the wall. Large splatters fluoresced all along the deck, continuing about half the length of the boat. Where the trail ended there was a large smear of blood going over the side of the ship. She walked back along the trail, examining the blood carefully. Cullen watched her, half-expecting her to be able to tell him this was Booth's blood just by looking at it.

"The blood was here prior to the explosion," she said, reaching down and touching a splatter mark with a gloved hand, "but not long before. The person was not drug or carried. From the splatter pattern and the smears along the wall, they walked, or I should say staggered along the side of the ship, using the wall for support, before sliding over the edge."

Cullen took a step towards her, "Maybe Booth was able to free himself. He then exited out the back door and along the port side where we could not see him and over the edge," he suggested.

"Somehow McGregor finds out he is gone and comes out onto the deck looking for him," added Brennan. "I saw him walk to the bow and look into the water, like he was looking for something or someone. He then continued down the port side and out of sight. Moments after he disappeared from our view the back of the boat exploded," she finished.

"He then either jumps or is thrown into the water," Cullen picked up, continuing the scenario. "So this cannot be McGregor's blood; the trail leads from the stern up the port side and we saw him at the bow just before the explosion."

"Given the amount of blood," Brennan said, her voice softening just a little, "I'd say he has at least one substantial injury. Depending on the type and location, I am not sure he would be able to swim…"

"We need to search the lake as well as the surrounding shoreline," Cullen ordered. "Get the dive team into the water. Connelly, take your team and start searching the shoreline. Let's move, people, we are losing daylight and we don't want to do this in the dark," he finished, following Brennan towards the closest boat.

She looked out over the water between the boat and the closest shoreline, ideas tumbling over each other as they raced through her head. _I've already buried you once, Booth_, she thought. _Don't make me do it again_.

**To Be Continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, ****Kathy Reichs,**** and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.**

**Chapter 8**

Cullen walked along the beach, searching for any sign of someone coming ashore. Twilight was fast approaching, but it was still easy to see. A shard of wood about two inches wide and nine inches long caught his attention. One end was covered in blood. "Got something," he called. "This is probably from McGregor, left in him from the explosion," the director stated as four more agents came to join him. "He is likely armed, so let's take this carefully," he added as the agents began to spread out some and move inland.

Brennan was walking along the beach several yards ahead of Cullen when he called out. She was about to turn around when she noticed some marks on the shore a ways down the beach in front of her. She walked towards them, crouching down as she examined the marks. The lack of actual footprints suggested someone had struggled ashore, pulling themselves with their arms, and pushing with their feet the short distance to the tree line. Moving towards the vegetation, she found a small pool of blood on the ground and a smear on the bark of a tree, as well as some small scraps of white material. They were jagged at the edges as if they had been ripped apart.

_He must have drug himself ashore and then used his shirt to bind his wounds_, she thought.

She turned, taking a few steps down the beach. "Director Cullen," she began, but the beach was empty. Not sure where the other agents were and not wanting to risk yelling, she decided to follow Booth's trail alone.

She had no real training at tracking, so she looked for the easiest path forward. The path she would take, if she were hurt and just trying to find a way out. A short way into the vegetation, she saw another bloodstain on the leaves of a small bush. Suddenly she got an idea; she reached into her bag, pulling out her UV light and shining it on the smear. The blood fluoresced under the bluish light.

_That will make tracking you easier, _she thought. _Come on, Booth_, _where are you?_

She moved as quickly and quietly as she could, following the glowing blood traces through the brush, while listening for sounds around her.

After about fifteen minutes, she thought she could hear voices ahead of her. Pulling her gun out, she followed the sound to the edge of a small clearing. She could see McGregor on the right side of the clearing, standing beside a large tree. There was a bloodstain on the sleeve of his left arm, starting just below the shoulder and continuing almost to the elbow. He held a handgun loosely in his right hand.

Across the clearing from him stood Booth. Even in the fading light, Brennan could see his face was pale and his breathing was labored. He wore just an undershirt, which was stained with blood. What was left of his white dress shirt was tied around his left leg and was dark with blood.

McGregor seemed smug, relaxed even. Confident he still had the upper hand.

"Come now, Agent Booth," he said, continuing their conversation, "there is no reason to be like that. Just look at you, rough swim over was it?" he inquired, in a mocking tone.

Booth did not reply, just stared at him with hatred in his eyes.

"How far did you think you would get, Agent? It's just you and me in the middle of nowhere; oh yes, and I have a gun," McGregor continued, gloatingly. "I may even forgive you for blowing up my ship, you just have to ask."

"Go to hell, McGregor," Booth spat, clutching at his side.

"Oh, I think I will hear you beg before it's over," the armed man said, with a malicious smile on his face.

"I won't beg you… for anything," Booth panted, breathing heavily.

As this conversation played out, Brennan moved with all the silence she could manage towards the tree next to McGregor. Slowly she crept around it, making no noise until she was just inches from him.

"Have it your way," she heard him say. "Perhaps I will have to go look up the lady scientist again," he added, raising the gun toward the injured man.

Stepping quickly out from behind the tree, she placed the barrel of her gun against the man's temple. "Let me save you the trouble," she said, her mouth close to his ear.

He froze, his eyes widening in surprise and panic. "Le- let's be reasonable," he stammered.

"Let's," agreed Brennan, as she pulled back the hammer, cocking her gun. The cylinder clicked loudly; as it rotated around to bring a bullet to the barrel. "Why don't we start with you dropping that gun?" Her eyes flashed to Booth for an instant. A mixture of emotions flitted across his face, surprise and fear being the most prominent, "Easy, Bones," he whispered, one hand stretched towards her as if to stop her.

The man complied with her request, immediately releasing the gun, which fell to the ground at his feet. "I'll cooperate," he said, speaking quickly, and raising his hands in the air "there- there's no need to be rash."

Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. She saw Cullen approaching the clearing to her left. His face was white with shock, but he also looked angry.

"No need?" she whispered. "Well, you see, McGregor, I don't really approve of the way you have treated my friend here," she continued in his ear. "I intend to make sure you get exactly what's coming to you."

Booth's eyes widened in fear at her words.

"Wait, please--" the drug lord began.

She quickly turned her gun, bringing the handle down hard at the base of his skull. He crumpled to the ground and didn't move again.

Brennan looked quickly towards Booth, who stared at her for a moment, the shock on his face turning quickly to relief. He gave her half a smile. "Hey, Bones," he said weakly, before collapsing forward to his knees, using his hands to support his upper body.

"Booth!" she said in alarm, moving towards him.

"I'm okay," he panted, in response.

She moved swiftly to his side, placing her hand on his back as she knelt next to him. Reflexively, he arched away from her touch, letting out a gasp of pain. She pulled her hand quickly away, not touching him anymore.

"Maybe I'm not… that okay," he amended, a grin on his face.

She shook her head, a smile starting at the corner of her mouth. "Can you walk?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said in a tight voice, as he rocked back on his heels, coming to a kneeling position.

Careful not to touch his back again, she placed her arm around his waist and then bringing his left arm over her shoulder, she helped him to his feet. He stood for a moment, holding his breath, trying to manage the pain, then asked, "How far is it… to the boat… exactly?"

She smiled up at him. "Come on," she said, leading him back toward the beach.

Cullen stood over the unconscious man, whose hands were now cuffed behind his back. He tucked McGregor's gun in his belt, looking over at the scientist as she helped her partner to his feet.

_They are quite a pair, _he mused, watching them as they made their way out of the clearing.

--

She sat with him in his hospital room, in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside his bed. She had the chair turned so she was facing him and she rested her elbow on the side of his bed.

"Well, the fiberglass Hodgins found is a match with McGregor's boat," Brennan stated. "Hodgins also went through the evidence and pulled the same fiberglass from two of the other victims."

"Yeah, the DA called here this morning. Looks like they have a good solid case, thanks to you," Booth said, smiling at her. "I also got a call from Cullen," he continued, letting the statement hang there for a moment.

"He really doesn't like me, does he?" Brennan asked tentatively.

"Well," Booth began, "he did have a lot to say about you in the clearing. I told him he shouldn't have let you wander out of his sight," he added, a mischievous look in his eye.

"I did not 'wander out of his sight'-- he left me on the beach," she clarified.

"I gotta ask, Bones, how did you even convince Cullen to let you help?" Booth inquired, laughter evident on his face.

"What?" replied Brennan, "I just convinced him it would be better to work together than separately," she said, an evasive smile on her face.

Booth's eyes suddenly lit with understanding. "You found out something he didn't know, didn't you? Then told him he had to let you help or you were going to do it on your own," he said, the laughter fading a bit and being replaced with gratitude.

"What? No! How did you know?" she asked, realizing that he would see through her denial.

"I know you, Bones," he said, with a classic Booth smile on his face. "Thanks," he added in a more serious tone. "You know, blackmailing federal agents could get you into trouble one of these days," he continued, laughing again. "The look on Cullen's face when you had the gun to McGregor's head-- I thought he was going to have a heart attack right there."

"I wasn't going to kill him," she replied, "but people like him, bullies, people who get what they want through intimidation, they need to know fear at some point."

"Well, it worked," Booth, said. "You had him scared. I'm just glad you're on my side!" he said, shaking his head.

"Look at you," she said in a softer tone. "You shouldn't have even been there."

"Ah, come on, Bones, it's no big deal," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "I'll be out of here in no time."

"Yeah, but how many times now have you been the one in the hospital bed, when it should have been me?' she asked, looking down at her hands."

After a moment of silence, she continued, "I was thinking… there's a verse that goes something like; no one has greater love than the one who gives his life for his friends."

"Wait, wait, wait," Booth interrupted, "did you just quote the Bible?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face. He was trying to keep the conversation light. He could see the guilt in her eyes and didn't want her to feel bad.

"What? I've read it," she said, smiling, but in a slightly defensive tone. "That's not the point," she continued, unwilling to be distracted by his teasing. "The point is, I was thinking, that verse fits you, Booth." Her tone became more serious. "I'm glad that I'm your friend. I've never had anyone take care of me the way you take care of me." She paused, looking at him intently. "Why do you do it?"

He looked at his hands for a few seconds, playing with his IV tube, before answering. "Because, Bones," he said, looking up at her, "you've got something special. FBI agents, guys like me, are a dime a dozen; but you, you have a gift. A gift that helps so many people, and that is worth protecting."

She smiled at him. "You're half right," she said, "FBI agents are a dime a dozen, but you really are one of a kind." She stood up and leaned over, kissing him lightly on the forehead.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"Hey, anytime, Bones," he said, with his characteristic crooked smile on his face, "that's what I'm here for."

She smiled down at him, shaking her head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, turning towards the door. She paused at the doorframe, looking back at him. "Good night," she added.

He returned her smile. "Good night, Bones."

**The End  
**


End file.
